up and run away in alarm.
Esdra was telling me that Ms. Haider was “all the time writing”—as long as he’d been working in the household, going back to a time when her father Mr. Haider had hired him.
“See, Mz. Haider has a ‘mission’—‘message’ to the world—she says. She been trying so hard to have a book published by some place real —not where the writer pays the printer. She will be very happy to see you, Mr. King . . .”
I wondered if Esdra had ever read anything by his mistress? And did he know about her “missions” of litigation? Did he know—did he suspect—that she was not quite sane; or rather, was his loyalty unquestioned, even as, shrewdly, he would have no wish to delve too deeply into her activities?
I wondered if C. W. Haider had no relatives, or perhaps no relatives with whom she was on friendly terms. The dignified old Edwardian house had been deteriorating for decades and the life of its household, so to speak, had retreated to a single room. Without the “caretaker”—what would become of the household, or of its mistress?
Indeed Esdra Staples did seem dwarf-like, like a servant in a fairy tale. He was compact, and short, though without the typical upper-body deformity of a dwarf. He was wearing soiled work trousers and what appeared to be a very old, ill-fitting butler’s black jacket, with rolled-up cuffs. From a remark he’d made as he was leading me through the house I understood that he didn’t live at Tumbrel Place but a distance away; he came to the house at least once a day, to bring in the mail, feed the cat, check that things were all right.
“I’ll leave this here, Esdra. Thank you!”
I set the tinsel-wrapped box on the desk, prominently. This, Haider would see as soon as she stepped into the room.
Bringing the gift, the book, had been an inspiration out of nowhere—out of the (previous) night. I’d taken Stephen King’s Misery from my bookshelf and “inscribed” it
To C. W. Haider with everlasting gratitude
Your friend & sincere admirer
Steve King
Bangor, Maine
I’d disguised my handwriting—of course. I’d included a little drawing of a mock-smiling face.
How incensed Haider would be, when she returned to this!
It was a cruel joke perhaps but—as Jack of Spades had pointed out—no one had forced C. W. Haider to initiate a lawsuit against King, Rush, and others.
It’s her against you. She has laid a curse on you.
Esdra told me that I could look through Ms. Haider’s bookshelves if I wanted to but he couldn’t help much. He had work to do outside—he was clearing away tree debris from a recent storm. No matter how hard he worked, seemed like he couldn’t keep up with all the things going wrong with the house, that would make Ms. Haider sad to see when she returned . . .
I thanked Esdra and told him that I was fine looking through the books on the shelves and that I didn’t need his assistance.
While the loyal caretaker was clearing away debris with a rake I could observe him through a window, through a thatch work of overgrown vines. But I did not think that the loyal caretaker could see me.
Her against you. No mercy.
“My God!”
From a shelf I pulled two old, indeed antiquated volumes—Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus . The pages were desiccated and the bindings badly worn but the date was 1823—a true collector’s item. I had no idea what such an edition would cost in today’s market but supposed it was well beyond the price of my entire “first edition” library at Mill Brook House.
Beside the Frankenstein volumes was an equally antiquated copy of The Last Man , 1826, signed by Mary Shelley; beside this, volumes by Bram Stoker— Dracula (1897), The Lady of the Shroud (1909), The Lair of the White Worm (1911). All were signed by Bram Stoker, the inked signature faded but still legible.
Beside Stoker, several first editions by Sheridan Le Fanu including In a Glass Darkly (1872). I had heard
Esdra was telling me that Ms. Haider was “all the time writing”—as long as he’d been working in the household, going back to a time when her father Mr. Haider had hired him.
“See, Mz. Haider has a ‘mission’—‘message’ to the world—she says. She been trying so hard to have a book published by some place real —not where the writer pays the printer. She will be very happy to see you, Mr. King . . .”
I wondered if Esdra had ever read anything by his mistress? And did he know about her “missions” of litigation? Did he know—did he suspect—that she was not quite sane; or rather, was his loyalty unquestioned, even as, shrewdly, he would have no wish to delve too deeply into her activities?
I wondered if C. W. Haider had no relatives, or perhaps no relatives with whom she was on friendly terms. The dignified old Edwardian house had been deteriorating for decades and the life of its household, so to speak, had retreated to a single room. Without the “caretaker”—what would become of the household, or of its mistress?
Indeed Esdra Staples did seem dwarf-like, like a servant in a fairy tale. He was compact, and short, though without the typical upper-body deformity of a dwarf. He was wearing soiled work trousers and what appeared to be a very old, ill-fitting butler’s black jacket, with rolled-up cuffs. From a remark he’d made as he was leading me through the house I understood that he didn’t live at Tumbrel Place but a distance away; he came to the house at least once a day, to bring in the mail, feed the cat, check that things were all right.
“I’ll leave this here, Esdra. Thank you!”
I set the tinsel-wrapped box on the desk, prominently. This, Haider would see as soon as she stepped into the room.
Bringing the gift, the book, had been an inspiration out of nowhere—out of the (previous) night. I’d taken Stephen King’s Misery from my bookshelf and “inscribed” it
To C. W. Haider with everlasting gratitude
Your friend & sincere admirer
Steve King
Bangor, Maine
I’d disguised my handwriting—of course. I’d included a little drawing of a mock-smiling face.
How incensed Haider would be, when she returned to this!
It was a cruel joke perhaps but—as Jack of Spades had pointed out—no one had forced C. W. Haider to initiate a lawsuit against King, Rush, and others.
It’s her against you. She has laid a curse on you.
Esdra told me that I could look through Ms. Haider’s bookshelves if I wanted to but he couldn’t help much. He had work to do outside—he was clearing away tree debris from a recent storm. No matter how hard he worked, seemed like he couldn’t keep up with all the things going wrong with the house, that would make Ms. Haider sad to see when she returned . . .
I thanked Esdra and told him that I was fine looking through the books on the shelves and that I didn’t need his assistance.
While the loyal caretaker was clearing away debris with a rake I could observe him through a window, through a thatch work of overgrown vines. But I did not think that the loyal caretaker could see me.
Her against you. No mercy.
“My God!”
From a shelf I pulled two old, indeed antiquated volumes—Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus . The pages were desiccated and the bindings badly worn but the date was 1823—a true collector’s item. I had no idea what such an edition would cost in today’s market but supposed it was well beyond the price of my entire “first edition” library at Mill Brook House.
Beside the Frankenstein volumes was an equally antiquated copy of The Last Man , 1826, signed by Mary Shelley; beside this, volumes by Bram Stoker— Dracula (1897), The Lady of the Shroud (1909), The Lair of the White Worm (1911). All were signed by Bram Stoker, the inked signature faded but still legible.
Beside Stoker, several first editions by Sheridan Le Fanu including In a Glass Darkly (1872). I had heard
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